


as if the sea should part

by quiveringtrees



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Character Study, Pre-Slash, That promised cruise in Mallorca, post-retirement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-20 08:33:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14257020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quiveringtrees/pseuds/quiveringtrees
Summary: He raises his eyebrows and extends his free hand – as if to shake hands, as if in a challenge – and this, too, is suddenly the most familiar feeling he has ever known.





	as if the sea should part

**Author's Note:**

> "I think this is something we'll talk about when we're all retired. And maybe we'll be in a boat in Mallorca, hopefully one day he'll invite me, and we'll go for a nice cruise."  
> \-- Roger Federer
> 
> (In other words, this was supposed to be a very short Rafa character study to hopefully get me into the habit of writing again. The ending got derailed a bit by this quote.)

He sits down at the end of the pier, and waits.

It's late, he knows. Far past midnight, well into those odd stretches of night that blend too quickly into morning. He does not have his watch, and has not looked at his phone since sending a text message and walking out of the house. But on the other hand, it's not as if he really needs to, not here – not in this place that he has known for as long as he's lived, its rhythms as familiar as the sound of his own breathing among the crashes of the waves.

There are no lights on the pier, but over the sea there is a half-moon that more than illuminates the cloudy skies. And behind him, despite the late hour, the streets of the village are outlined in a smattering of golden lights. Even here, close to the water, between the bobbing silhouettes of anchored boats, there is no darkness, only peace.

He closes his eyes briefly against the wind and its familiar scent of brine. Knows that he's content to wait here, where even waiting feels like a luxury.

There has been no reply, this entire time. His phone, deep in his pocket, has been entirely silent. Yet he's convinced that it will not be long, with certainty that is as calm as it is perhaps irrational.

If someone were to flip through the years of his life like the pages of a book, there would just as many times, if not more, that he has sat at this exact spot on this same pier, feet dangling just above the waves. The first few times he no longer remembers well; he would've only been four or five years old, and either way they never lasted long, usually ending in his father or uncle or various other harried relatives running over and drawing him away from the water. Soon after that, the years started to fill with different kinds of memories – practice after practice, match after match, and, eventually, tournament after tournament and final after final. And, between it all, the ever-shorter trips back here, where he could have the time to remember who he was.

There was an interview, not too many years ago, where he'd said that being on the water was one of the few things that made him feel free. He was being honest – he always tried to be, of course, but in the midst of what had been a barrage of difficult late-career questions about coaching changes and injury and loss, he'd perhaps given this answer more thought than others. Now, with the days on tour behind him, he still remembers vividly the sense of contrast he always felt with coming back here. How even a few minutes in the stillness of the islands seemed to wash away the chaos of the tour, the way the searing sunlight always seemed to ease the pain in his knees.

Tonight, though, is different. Mallorca has been home again for the past year or two, in every sense of the word. There is no longer anything that he's running from – quite far from it, in fact.

He thinks of the day spent among crowds of young, eager faces, hitting in the sun, walking together through the halls of his school. All things quite familiar to him, of course, but now different, in that they had become part of one more new thing that they were trying to accomplish. The time itself had gone by quickly, but even then there was no sense of rush or of urgency. In the next few weeks, after all, there were still many, many more days to come, and to fill.

(If there was another thing that had always made him feel a bit more free, it would've been this – being always thankful for everything he had, but knowing how and when to hope.)

There are soft footsteps along the pier, and he waits until they stop close by him, before he turns around.

"Geez, Rafa…when I agreed to this, I expected to be worked hard. But not that my schedule would go so late into the night, you know?"

It is meant as a joke, he thinks, but neither of them laugh right away. And when he picks himself up off the pier and stands, they are eye to eye, only a pace or two apart.

The moonlight cuts heavy and humid through the air, casting into relief every plane and line in the face in front of him. And he thinks that if Roger looks a bit determined, maybe a bit afraid, then these are things that he must be mirroring, too.

So he smiles, moves past Roger, letting their shoulders bump lightly in the process. The tangle of ropes tethering the boat to the pier is only a few steps away. When he kneels, the wooden planks are rough against the skin of his bare knees.

"But is part of deal, no?" His fingers make short work of the familiar knots. "You come to my academy, teach for a month, and we go out on the boat."

Behind him, Roger laughs softly – so softly that it sounds like letting out a breath. "This is so crazy – you mean, here? Now?"

He smiles, though does not answer right away; he's fairly certain that it's obvious, anyways, what he's doing. The end of the final slip knot he keeps ahold of as he rises and jumps the short distance into the boat, its pull heavy where it keeps him tethered to the shore. He still says nothing as he turns around. Only raises his eyebrows and extends his free hand – as if to shake hands, as if in a challenge – and this, too, is suddenly the most familiar feeling he has ever known.

The world is silent apart from the lapping waves. But he sees now, in Roger's eyes, a peace and a triumph to match his own.

"Okay," Roger breathes, finally. "Okay."


End file.
